Impressive. Daddy must be truly high-up closet VIP to rate such inside data supplied to home shelter. As considered this, another row flashed on, this labeled “Retaliation Initiated.” Imagine — blow-by-blow nuclear-war info updates supplied to own home! Wonderful to be so important. Amazing man. And so modest — all these years never let on. Wondered about real function in government. With such brains, was probably head of supersecret spy bureau in charge of dozens of James Bond types.
Don’t know how long mindless rumination went on; finally something clicked in head: Attack? Retaliation? Hey…! Bolted for steps. Terry sunk -in claws, voiced protest over sudden movements.
Stopped like statue. Daddy’s voice, tinny, obviously recording: “Red alert, radiation detected. Level above danger limit. Shelter will seal in thirty seconds — 29, 28, 27…” Stood frozen; listened as familiar voice delivered requiem for everything known and loved — including probably self. Interrupted count once at 15-second mark to repeat radiation warning, again at five seconds.
Then came deep-toned humming; powerful motors slid blocks of concrete, steel, asbestos across top of stairwell, did same for emergency-entry chute. Sealing process terminated with solidly mechanical clunks, thuds. Motors whined in momentary overload as program ensured was tight.
Then truly alone. Stood staring at nothing for long minutes. Did not know when silent tears began; noticed wet face when Terry sampled, found too salty. Shook head; said softly, “Poo-oor bay-bee…”
Presently found self sitting in chair. Radio on; could not remember turning switch, locating CONELRAD frequency. Just sat, listened to reports. Only time stirred was to feed, water Terry; use potty. Station on air yet, but manned only first three days.
Was enough, told story: Mankind eliminated. Radiation, man-made disease. International quick-draw ended in tie.
Final voice on air weakly complained situation didn’t make sense: Was speaking from defense headquarters near Denver — miles underground, utterly bombproof, airtight; self-contained air, water — so why dying? Why last alive in entire installation? Didn’t make sense…
Agreed, but thought objection too limited in scope. Also wondered why we were still alive. Likewise didn’t make sense: If invulnerability of NORAD headquarters — located just this side of Earth’s core under Cheyenne Mountain — proving ineffective, how come fancy subcellar hidey-hole under house in small town still keeping occupants alive? And for how long?. Figured had to be just matter of time.
Therefore became obsessed with worry over fate of retarded brother. Were safe from radiation (it seemed); but plague another matter. Doubted would affect avian biochemistry; would kill me, leave poor baby to starve, die of thirst. Agonized over dilemma for days. Finally went downstairs; hoped might turn up something in stores could use as Terry’s Final Friend.
Did. Found armory. Thought of what might have to do almost triggered catatonia; but knew twin’s escape from suffering dependent on me, so mechanically went ahead with selection of shotgun. Found shells, loaded guns. Carried upstairs, placed on table. Then waited for cue.
Knew symptoms; various CONELRAD voices had described own, those of friends. Were six to syndrome. Order in which appeared reported variable; number present at onset of final unconsciousness not. Four symptoms always, then fifth: period of extreme dizziness — clue to beginning of final decline. Was important, critical to timing with regard to Terry. Desperately afraid might wait too long; condemn poor incompetent to agonizing last days. And almost more afraid might react to false alarm, proceed with euthanasia; then fail to die — have to face scattered, blood-spattered feathers, headless body of sweetest, jolliest, most devoted, undemandingly loving friend had ever known.
Which was prospect if acted too soon — intended to stand 20 feet away, blow off head while engrossed in peanut butter. Pellet pattern expansion sufficient at that distance to ensure virtually instantaneous vaporization of entire head, instant kill before possibility of realization, pain. Would rather suffer own dismemberment, boiling in oil, than see innocent baby suffer, know was me causing.
Thus, very important to judge own condition accurately when plague sets in.
Only hasn’t yet. Been waiting three weeks, paralyzed with grief, fear, apprehension, indecision. But such emotions wearisome when protracted; eventually lose grip on victim. I think perhaps might have — particularly now that journal up-to-date, catharsis finished. Book says therapy requires good night’s sleep after spilling guts; then feel better in morning. Suspect may be right; do feel better.
Okay. Tomorrow will get organized…!
Good morning, Posterity! Happy to report I spent good night. Slept as if already dead — first time since trouble began. No dreams; if tossed, turned, did so without noticing. Appears psychology-text writer knew stuff (certainly should have; more letters following name than in). Catharsis worked — at least would seem; felt good on waking. Wounds obviously not healed yet, but closed. A beginning — scabs on soul much better than hemorrhage.
Situation unchanged; obviously not happy about fact (if were would know had slipped cams). But this morning can look at Terry without bursting into tears; can face possibility might have to speed birdbrained twin to Reward before own condition renders unable. Thought produces entirely reasonable antipathy, sincere hope will prove unnecessary — but nothing more.
Despairing paralysis gone; mind no longer locked into hopeless inverse logarithmic spiral, following own tail around ever closer, all-enveloping fear of ugly possibility.
Seems have regained practical outlook held prior to Armageddon; i.e., regard worry as wasteful, counterproductive if continued after recognition, analysis of impending problem, covering bases to extent resources permit. Endless bone-worrying not constructive exercise; if anything, diminishes odds for favorable outcome by limiting scope of mind’s operation, cuts down opportunities for serendipity to lend hand. Besides, takes fun out of life — especially important when little enough to be had.
Time I rejoined world of living (possibly not most apt choice of words — hope do not find am in exclusive possession). First step: consider well-being. Have sadly neglected state of health past three weeks; mostly just sat in chair, lay abed listening to airwaves hiss.
And speaking of physical well-being — have just noticed: am ravenous! Have nibbled intermittently, without attention to frequency, content — mostly when feeding, watering Terry. (Regardless of own condition, did not neglect jovial imbecile during course of depression. Even cobbled up makeshift stand from chair, hardwood implement handle; found sturdy dishes, secured firmly to discourage potential hilarity. Granted, diet not ideal — canned vegetables, fruits, meat, etc. — but heard no complaints from clientele, and would be no doubt if existed: Dissatisfaction with offerings usually first indicated by throwing on floor; if prompt improvement not forthcoming, abandons subtlety.)
Have also noticed am filthy! Wearing same clothes came downstairs in three weeks ago. Neither garments nor underlying smelly germ farm exposed to water, soap, deodorant since. (Can be same fastidious Candy Smith-Foster who insists upon shower, complete change of clothing following any hint of physical exertion, contact with even potentially soiled environment? Regrettably is.) And now that am in condition to notice — have! Self-respecting maggot would take trade elsewhere.